


Intro To Art For NonMajors

by otatop



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist Stiles, Bottom Derek, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Derek sucks at art, Everyone is a bottom, Fingering, Hand Turkeys make an appearance, Laura is a meddling older sister, M/M, Pining, Teacher-Student Relationship, flip fucking, professor!Stiles, student!derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 00:26:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otatop/pseuds/otatop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek has one more class to pass before he can finish his degree but he can't bring himself to give a shit about art. He can, however, give a shit about his professor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intro To Art For NonMajors

            Stiles Stilinski’s office was exactly what you’d expect from a spastic, barely-adult art professor: a mess. The walls were covered in corkboard, but you wouldn’t know it for all the hundreds of sketches tacked to them. Big sketches, small sketches, sketches that were more scribbles that only looked like a picture if you went like _this_ and sketches that were so beautiful it was a shame they had tack holes in them. There was exactly one bookcase but it held so many books that some were sideways on top of other books. That, too, had sketches tacked to every surface. The desk was surprisingly clean, if you ignore the fine dust of charcoal on everything.  
  
            Derek wiped at the desk with one finger in distaste and, when it came back black, opted to put his books on the floor. Stiles, for all he was supposed to be an adult, scratched at the back of his head with a coal covered hand and gave a bashful smile. He had a gray smudge on his cheek and one on his forehead and God help him Derek wanted to lick it clean.

So Stiles Stilinski may be his man-child of an art professor and Derek maybe wanted to do terrible, awful, wonderful things to him.

            That didn’t mean he had to be happy about being asked to come in during his only break of the day.

            “I’m not gonna lie,” Stiles started (because he was one of those ‘hip’ professors that went by his first name. Derek loved and hated it). “I’ve never had a meeting with a student that looked like they wanted to eat me.”

            Derek huffed an unamused laugh but tried to tone back his annoyance. “I might take a bite if we don’t do this fast; this is my only break on Thursdays.”

            Stiles shot to attention. “Oh, shit, sorry. You should have said- I would have…. Something. Here.” He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a blessedly clean box of crackers. “It’s the least I can do for well…” Derek accepted the box, wary of the guilty look on Stiles’ usually chipper face. He wasn’t even into his first bite before the young professor started.

            “Sooo…” Stiles gestured with his hands a little and it occurred to Derek that he might actually have zero idea what he’s doing and wasn’t just being shy about this; he really was quite young. “I wanted to talk to you about your grade.” It was the last thing a student wants to hear because professors never call you in to talk about your good grades. “To tell the truth I’ve never had to fail a student in an entry level, non-major art class so I… I don’t know if I went wrong somewhere or what, but… Derek- you know you need this gen-ed to graduate. I know you know that because you’re obviously not an idiot.” Through the haze of anxiety and anticipation, Derek preened a little. “But you’re not even _trying_. Like. There is zero effort. You might be putting in more effort if you didn’t even show up to my class.”

            “Attendance is ten percent,” Derek said lamely if only to avoid saying he comes to class to watch his professor’s backside as he bends over to look at other student’s work. Stiles snorted and opened the half-clean folder on his desk. Derek immediately recognized his own… erm, _sketches_.

            “It’s really unfair for me to grade based purely on talent for a gen-ed that so many students get stuck in but Derek… my 4 year old cousin can do better than this.”

            If it weren’t so true, Derek would have been offended. His projects and homework assignments were absolute crap, spread out like Stiles was trying to giftwrap his desk in smudgy stick figures and blobs on wonky backdrops. He couldn’t be bothered to put more effort into his homework- he had an honor’s thesis looming over his head because for _some_ reason going for his second bachelor’s degree wasn’t enough and he had to break his back the second time around. Art wasn’t exactly a priority, even if he did need the class to graduate. Why, back in the day the requirements for graduating were actually pertinent to your degree.

            (So what if that makes him sound old- this gen-ed business was bullshit.)

            “I really, _really_ don’t want to fail you Derek. Like, I would do pretty much anything to keep you from failing so you can graduate but you have to give me _something_. Are you actually so artfully stunted that you think people are circles with some dots and lines? Do you think you’re too good for this class because you’re older than everyone? Am I a shitty teacher?”

            What hurt more than a failing grade was how worried Stiles looked at the prospect of being a poor teacher. Truthfully, he _did_ feel like he was too good for the class, and not by means of any real skill. He was twenty-eight for heaven’s sake and he spent three hours every Monday evening surrounded by arrogant eighteen year olds with the dress sense of a rich hobo. He was back for his second degree because History was his true passion and he regretted not going into it every single day since he was twenty-two and thrust into the world with an accounting degree. Art did nothing for him. He didn’t need it, he wasn’t good at it, and he couldn’t appreciate it.

            And here Stiles was, blaming himself because Derek thought he was better than art students. It hadn’t occurred to him until that moment that the object of his affection had once been a student like the ones Derek looked down on every week. He had been good at it, he had loved it, and he had pursued it the way Derek was pursuing History. Derek had never thought himself above Stiles. Quite the opposite, really; he appreciated the wired man for what he was- sharp witted, sinfully attractive, and dedicated enough to be a professor at an impressively young age. Derek wasn’t even sure the man was older than _him_ ; he always just kind of assumed the way you instinctively assume all professors are older than you. But Stiles… there was something about him…

            “You’re not a bad teacher,” he clarified and Stiles looked cautiously optimistic. “I’ve been having trouble with my Honor’s Thesis this semester and I have to present it in a few weeks. It has nothing to do with you.”

            Stiles nodded but didn’t look as happy as Derek would have liked him to. “Busy. I get that. If it was just that I would have talked to you sooner. It can get pretty easy to ignore all the insignificant things when something big is looming over your head.”

            “You’re… It’s not insignificant,” Derek interrupted. He could punch himself for nearly saying something inappropriate. He was determined to keep this professional; the last thing he needed was his grade questioned because he came onto his professor (although given that he might _fail_ that was a pretty ridiculous notion…) or, heaven forbid, Stiles job put on the line.

            “But it’s not important to you,” Stiles clarified. He didn’t look insulted, but he wasn’t the chipper man that bounced around the art studio with limitless energy. “It’s ok to admit; I know my class is an obligation. You don’t have to like it but you have to _pass_ , Derek. So I was thinking. I can’t give you a passing grade just because I’d feel guilty about keeping you from graduating on time. But I can give you one more chance.” Not that he was slouching, but Derek sat even straighter, a flutter of hope rising up and warming his chest. “When do you defend your thesis?”

            “Two weeks from Thursday.”

            “Any finals?”

            “No. Just term papers and a final project.”

            Stiles nodded thoughtfully and rubbed at his bottom lip in the way that always had Derek adjusting himself in his seat. This time was no different.

            “Tell you what. Focus on finishing everything for your important classes and think about why you aren’t trying in my class. _Really_ think, Derek, because I know there has to be more to it than you not having time. It’s _art_ , everyone loves it in their own way. Tell me on Monday and we’ll set up a time for after your defense for an extra credit final project during exams. I don’t care how long it takes or how much your picture sucks; I just want to see you giving a shit.”

            Derek nodded. There wasn’t much else he could do in the face of the situation. His face was probably blank in the way Laura always said was default-grumpy, but if he didn’t keep his emotions in check he would be grinning like an idiot. His anxiety about graduating was forgotten and all he could think was _I get to spend time alone with Stiles_.

            And, you know, pass. That too.  


***~~~***  
  
  
            There’s only one more Monday of the semester and Derek had never actually been more nervous about a class in his life. He’d never actually been nervous about any class. He wasn’t the nervous type; he knew what he wanted from life and he knew what he had to do to get it.

            Granted, Stiles was on the list of things he wanted in life.

            He spent the entire weekend wracking his brain for something to say to the professor. He almost worried about it more than preparing his own thesis defense. Why didn’t he give a shit about art? He found it a little pointless. It didn’t progress or enrich his life. It didn’t give him _emotions_ or whatever. Sometimes it was pleasing to look at; he had a few pieces on the walls of his apartment that Laura had assured him were _very_ tasteful and by a talented local artist. (Hooray for supporting the community?) Really, he only kept them up because he couldn’t be bothered to take them down and they reminded him of his sister.

            He stared at them all weekend trying to figure out why they didn’t mean anything to him.

            The only thing he could come up with was that he just didn’t _care_ and it made him angry because he wanted to care about something that Stiles cared about enough to make his profession.

            Come Monday evening, he still didn’t have a good answer and he had even less sleep. After spending most of Friday and Saturday worrying about what he would say to Stiles, Sunday had crept up on him and he ended up staying up way too late trying to play catch up. He half dreaded coming to the dingy studio to only draw a couple wonky lines on his crappy final assignment and get judged by entitled freshman. The other half looked forward to seeing Stiles. It wasn’t even a guilty pleasure anymore; he stared shamelessly as Stiles flitted about the room to praise and help all the students putting the finishing touches on their final still-life pieces. He didn’t have to be guilty as long as he didn’t _act_ on it because Stiles and he were mature adults. Life was dull without this kind of appreciation.

            He could appreciate Stiles the way he was supposed to appreciate art. He could look at the lines of his long legs and the arch of his back and be filled with an emotion he wasn’t comfortable naming- but it was _something_. He _felt_ something when he watched Stiles, watched his arms ark out as he enthusiastically praised one of his students, watched his hands as he blackened them with charcoal and made a mess of his hair line and neck. He watched Stiles, who grinned at him from across the room and tugged at his hair and made Derek _appreciate._

            And _boy_ did he appreciate those tight pants.

            After Thursday’s meeting, Derek only felt a little embarrassed by his “finished” piece. He didn’t see the point in trying to put any last touches on it when it wouldn’t get any better and Stiles had decided that the last day of class was the best time to test Derek’s self-control. Normally he wore clothes as appropriate as possible for a professor who would leave covered in charcoal. Derek was used to it, had built up a healthy tolerance. Today, after a weekend of thinking about the man a little too much, he was wearing… were those _slacks?_ They were as tight as jeans but most certainly _not_ jeans and heaven help him there were suspenders involved and a white button down and… and those _forearms_.

            This was bad.  
  
            Derek took his time to get over the initial shock because hey, why hurry these things when he had three hours to move onto more in depth gratitude?

            And then Stiles _bent over_.

            And Derek pulled his chair closer to his table.

            Sometime around the middle of class, Stiles finally meandered over to appraise the shadow Derek had decided to add to his picture. The man was obviously trying to hide a laugh behind his hand as he half crouched, half leaned on Derek’s chair and table.

            “Nice shadowing,” he chuckled. Derek could take the teasing for what it was and pretended he was more proud of the picture than he actually was.

            “It is, isn’t it?”

            Stiles ducked his head down and sideways to give Derek a smile. “I’ve never seen a two dimensional box give off such an impressive shadow before. It’s quite a skill you’ve got there.”

            Derek nodded very seriously at his picture if only to avoid leaning over and ravishing _his professor_. “I saw the potential and I went for it.”

            “How avant garde.”

            Fuck, was this flirting? This was flirting. There was definite flirting going on and Derek was _far_ too aware of the judgmental teenagers in the room. Stiles must have caught on, too, because he gave a little cough and rocked down to sit on his heels. Derek wished he would just pull up a damn chair because seeing him crouched down for him like that….

            It wasn’t the easiest thing to try for a professional relationship when you can’t stop picturing someone kneeling between your legs.

            “Di’ja think about what I asked you to?”

            Derek nodded once.

            “And?” His eyes were so wide and hopeful that Derek pulled up every college-essay bullshitting technique he could to elaborate his problem into more than what it really was.

            “I don’t care about the subjects.”

            Stiles looked like someone had given him a puppy he was smiling so wide. Derek fought back an answering grin and lost. “What do you care about, Derek?”

            Anyone who knew Derek would know that was a loaded question because the things he cared about he kept close. He had only known Stiles since January and it was barely May now, and yet there was something in those big, expectant brown eyes that tore down his defenses. “My sister Laura. History. My family. People close to me.” Stiles didn’t have to know that he meant that figuratively and literally at the moment. “My family’s dog. Laura.”

            “You said Laura twice,” Stiles interrupted with a small, private smile. Derek shrugged because _yea_. Stiles fidgeted to lean his head on his hand with a soft expression in something that was far too intimate to be a classroom face but Derek couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it. “You are the least superficial person I’ve met.”

            If only Stiles knew how terribly Derek sometimes objectified him, he would not be saying that. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, to move this along because he couldn’t stand looking into those eyes when they were all _sparkly_ and warm and aimed at him. Stiles beat him to it, standing and clapping Derek on the shoulder once. His hand lingered two beats too long.

            “Send me a picture of your sister.”

            A block of ice dropped into Derek’s stomach, the stinging, shocked feeling of unprecedented rejection. He blanched, and Stiles looked like he had kicked a puppy. The man put his hand back on Derek’s shoulder with a “ _Woooawoa no no_ ,” took back his hand, hovered, put his hand on Derek’s shoulder, and gave a little flail all in the matter of seconds.

            “That’s not what I meant!” he all but shouted, voice cracking a little at the end. In the other man’s panic, Derek let himself feel the smallest bit of hope. But a silence had fallen on the class, the eyes of every other student staring at them, half with raised brows and a few with wicked smiles that Derek wanted to slap of their faces. Stiles cleared his throat and waved at them (Derek _did not_ catch himself staring at the bones of his wrist). “Don’t you have art to… _art_.”

            “Smooth recovery,” Derek teased. An attractive flush spread across Stiles’ cheeks as he finally pulled up a chair to sit at the table.

            “ _Yes_ , it was. Now- In a very non-creepy way, I would like you to send me your favorite picture of your sister. _For art_. Art. The class you are not passing. That I teach. There are _reasons_.”

            “Uh-huh.” With the hand not covered in charcoal, Derek pulled out his phone and started flipping through some of the photos he had on there. Laura had a habit of taking pictures of herself whenever she got her grubby hands on it. He didn’t have a favorite, but there were a few that were better than the others.

            “To your e-mail?” he asked even though, duh, of course to his university e-mail.

            Stiles did his unsure, hover-y hands, mouth hanging open like he wanted to say something. “You could…. Or just… Lemme…” he plucked the phone from Derek’s hand and tapped in his number. “Just send it here.”

            Derek was impressed with how he managed to come across unaffected when his heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. He sent a picture without a message, not trusting himself to not make a fool out of himself. Stiles pulled his own phone out of the pocket of his impossibly tight slacks (how he managed to fit a phone in there, Derek had no idea).

            “Right. Good. I can use my fancy professor resources to get this blown up; I’ll bring it and some other things to our meeting so you can choose your own subject. Which, uh, when did you want to do that?”

            Derek shrugged. “The Friday evening after my thesis?” The following day being Saturday, Saturday being the day after which Stiles decided his grade, and Saturday being a day on which they didn’t have to get out of bed.

            But Stiles flinched and Derek frowned. “Fridays and Mondays are no good for me this May.” He pulled at his suspenders. “I convinced my friend that she loved me enough to let me put some of my pieces in her gallery downtown if I promised to- her words not mine- ‘do my unfortunately attractive hipster gig and bring in the cougars.’ I barely managed to convince her to let me come late since today is my last evening class of the year.”

            Huh. Laura loved those types of events; she was always better at socializing and appreciating other people’s art in a way Derek would never understand. Especially when the artist were local and she could rub it in Derek’s face how successful she was by buying overpriced lumps of paint and canvas and… and…

            This was very bad.

            Derek clammed up and didn’t dare say anything that would draw Stiles’ attention to the picture he’d just sent. The universe did not love him enough to keep the force that was Laura’s meddling at bay. And Stiles was exactly the type of person to go looking for her if Derek told him not to.

            And there was no way Derek would survive his next meeting if those two joined forces.

            Instead of drawing Stiles’ attention to the picture, he gave one curt nod to show he understood and said “Thursday night, then,” because he wasn’t going to wait any more than he already had to and there were already two Mondays and a Friday between now and then. That was three too many opportunities for two parts of his life to collide in a gruesome way.

            “Thursday like… the same day? Wouldn’t you rather celebrate finishing your thesis or something?”

            Stiles wasn’t nearly as good as Derek at hiding his hope in the way he gulped and leaned in a little too much. And Derek… well, Derek wanted to keep the hope alive, if you will. He looked Stiles in the eye and smirked.

            “I’m sure I’ll get around to it.”

 

***~~~***

 

            Of course, Friday was the day everything went to shit when Derek woke up Saturday morning to a barrage of texts.

 _From: Laura Hale  
_ OMG

 _From: Laura Hale  
_ WHY WOULD YOU KEEP THIS FROM ME 

_From: Laura Hale  
_ 10/10 WOULD RECOMMEND

 _From: Laura Hale_  
R U GONNA BANG HIM?!  
  


 _From: Stiles Stilinski  
_ I think I accidentally bff’d your sister?

 _From: Stiles Stilinski  
_ She’s really nice?  
  


 _From: Laura Hale  
_ PLEASE TELL ME YOU ARE GOING TO BANG HIM  
 _Missed call: Laura Hale_

 _From: Laura Hale  
_ Dammit Derek stop being studious and answer your damn phone

_From: Laura HaleAttachment_

            Derek pushed away his soggy cereal and contemplated spiking his coffee when he opened a picture of his sister pulling in a red-faced Stiles so that their cheeks were squished together. Of course Stiles was wearing his glasses last night. And, of course, Laura knew he had a type. His type being anyone who looked like Stiles in glasses. She probably zeroed in on him and tried to tell him about her “totally attractive if you like tall, built, and broody” brother.

 _From: Stiles Stilinski  
_ I think I have made a terrible mistake.

 _From: Stiles Stilinski  
_ You didn’t tell me your sister knew Lydia!

 _From: Stiles Stilinski  
_ I am afraid for my life. I should fail you on principle.

 _From: Stiles Stilinski  
          _ This is why communication is important

 

 _From: Laura Hale  
_ ARE

 _From: Laura Hale  
_ YOU

 _From: Laura Hale  
_ GOING

 _From: Laura Hale  
_ TO

_From: Laura Hale_

BANG

 _From: Laura Hale  
_ YOUR

 _From: Laura Hale  
_ PROFESSOR

 

            _Missed call: Stiles Stilinski_  
            From: Stiles Stilinski  
            Please help. She is scary.  
            _From: Stiles Stilinski_  
            Never mind, she bought one of my paintings, I like her  
            _Missed call: Stiles Stilinski_  
            From: Stiles Stilinski  
            I changed my mind again please help she’s talking to Lydia and pointing at me and smiling and she looks like she’s going to drug me.  
            _From: Stiles Stilinski  
_ omg she’s the one who gave me this champagne it might be too late if I don’t show up on Thursday it’s because of her.

            There were two ways this could go. One, Laura had interfered too much, over-sold him, and scared Stiles off by being a generally terrifying person. Or two, Laura had told Stiles all the dirty little things that would absolutely ruin Derek for any other person. While the second one sounded good in theory, it was one thing to stare and vaguely flirt for some months. It was another thing to _know_. It was inappropriate for Stiles to know that Derek found him attractive; it blurred the lines of their student/teacher relationship too soon before the final grade had been booked.  
  
            Even if Laura didn’t know how Derek felt about Stiles, she had been trying to set him up with different people for _months_. Anyone that she knew Derek would find attractive _bam_ had his number. She’d gone so far as to tell the girl at the grocery store that he went there every Sunday because he was in love with her.

            He just had a schedule, ok? Now he had to drive to the next town over just for _bread_.

            Laura was smart enough to understand that his predicament was inappropriate, but she tended to go a little overboard when it came to “fixing” Derek’s life and _knowing_ didn’t mean she took measures to stop. And Lydia? Derek had only met her the once when Laura had dragged him to one of those art things when he had moved back to go to college again. It had been awful and the girl had looked him up and down with a critical eye, _hmph_ ed, and continued talking to his sister. Apparently going to an art gallery and not like art wasn’t a good idea. _Who knew_? But if she was good enough acquaintances with Laura, he didn’t trust her.

            It was early and a Saturday, so, naturally, Derek called and called and called Laura until she woke up and groaned into the phone.

            _“I’m going to murder you. Do you have any idea what time it is?”_

            “Do you have any idea how bad it is that you talked to Stiles about me?”

            Laura hummed on the other end. “First name basis, huh? You’re totally missing a golden opportunity to call him _professor_ when you bang him.”

            “I’m serious, Laura. You can’t try to set us up. The semester isn’t technically over and _I cannot risk people thinking there is something going on between us_.”

            “Relax, little bro.” Derek grumbled into the phone that he wasn’t _little_. “The second I realized he was your professor I backed off. Sort of. Did you know he and Lydia went to high school together? Small world, am I right?” The tone of her voice did little for Derek’s nerves.

            “Please tell me you didn’t tell his childhood friend that I’m in love with him.”

            There was a crash and squawk over the phone that had Derek pulling the receiver away from his ear and glaring at it. Why was his sister so _loud_? And, for that matter, how were they even related? Laura screamed something into the phone that he didn’t understand.

            “STILES is the fucking guy you’ve been mooning over all year, _isn’t he_?! He’s the reason you haven’t agreed to date anyone. I mean, I had my suspicions that it was someone from the university because you’ve been _particularly_ catty about it since January but _your professor_. Jesus, Derek.”

            “ _No_ ,” Derek barked because what on earth had caused here to come to that conclusion?

            “You’re totally in love with him. You just admitted! Ah, man, this is _gold_.”

            Panic started welling up inside of him because he _wasn’t_ in love, he _wasn’t_. “What, Laura, don’t be stupid. I just don’t need a repeat of the grocery-”

            “Yea, yea, I gotta go call Lydia, little bro.”

 _Click_.

Fuck.

Fuck.

            Without any consideration for the time, Derek pulled up the one-sided conversation Stiles had had with him while his phone was off and started typing furiously

 _To: Stiles Stilinski  
_ I have it on good authority that you should avoid Lydia.

 _To: Stiles Stilinski  
_ I mean -if you see her turn and walk the other way- avoid.

Fuck.

            It wasn’t just that it was inappropriate; it was that Laura would eventually go too far or dig too deep. She would try to be too involved and not let Derek just _have this_. She’d bother him about every little detail and tell his _mother_. Fuck. His mom probably already knew that Derek was interested in his professor. And what was worse? Laura took after her.

            He was just about to through his soggy cereal away when his phone vibrated.

 _From: Stiles Stilinski_  
Oh _now_ you come to my rescue. I see how it is.

            Derek felt himself smile for no reason. It was a stupid text. It didn’t mean anything. But here he was. Smiling in his kitchen, in his underwear, holding his phone in one hand and a soggy bowl of cereal in the other.

 _To: Stiles Stilinski  
_ Better late than never

 _From: Stiles Stilinski  
          _ When I’m being molested by a power-high business woman, late is meaningless

 _To: Stiles Stilinski  
_ Shit, she didn’t actually molest you, did she?

 _To: Stiles Stilinski  
_ I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s done some worse.

            _From: Stiles Stilinski  
_ Nah, it’s good, man. Once I worked out she was your sister and told her who I was she backed right off.

 _From: Stiles Stilinski  
_ Well. Sort of. She teamed up with Lydia so…

            Stiles texted like he e-mailed; like he was speaking but he still used all his punctuation. It was a stupid thing to find endearing, but Laura- who texted him most of all- liked to use stupid short hand and abbreviations he didn’t understand just to annoy him. Stiles… Stiles used _grammar_.

            Shut up, it’s sexy.

            An hour later found Derek sitting on his kitchen counter next to a warm bowl of mush and milk and tapping furiously at his phone. He had no idea what they talked about for an hour. He didn’t even _like_ texting but he liked texting Stiles. It was easy. He was funny and managed to send text after text without actually _saying_ anything and somehow Derek always had something to say back. Derek, who didn’t even know how to respond to his friends texts half the time, didn’t even have to think or agonize over what to say to Stiles.

            And he was half way through sending the message _“Yes but you have the body of_ Spiderman _more than_ Batman _”_ when he realized how wildly out of hand this had gotten. It had been so easy to carry on a conversation that he’d forgotten the situation. For a full five minutes he sat there, staring at the clock on his stove, fighting with himself that he had to stop. Right that second. You don’t tell your _professor_ that he has the body of a superhero. _You don’t_ _text your professor for an hour, either._ He deleted the message (no matter how true it was) and forged something vague about meeting his mother for brunch. Sudden, but effective.

            _From: Stiles Stilinski  
_             Shit, sorry to keep you. I’ll see you on Thursday ;)

            Derek choked on his spit and watched as his phone started buzzing out of control. 

            _From: Stiles Stilinski  
_             IGNORE THAT

            _From: Stiles Stilinski  
           _ THAT WAS SUPPSOED TO BE A SMILE

 _From: Stiles Stilinski  
_             NOT THAT I’M SENDING EMOTICONS TO A STUDENT

            From: Stiles Stilinski  
            NOT THAT YOU’RE NOT MORE THAN A STUDENT

 _From: Stiles Stilinski  
_            AND NOT THAT YOU DON’T DESERVE WINKY FACES

            From: Stiles Stilinski  
            I’M SURE PLENTY OF PEOPLE SEND YOU WINKY FACES

 _From: Stiles Stilinski  
_            Enjoy your brunch while I hang myself

            Face burning with his own and second hand embarrassment, Derek switched his phone off and took a deep breath. If he were being honest, watching Stiles overcompensate was endearing. It wasn’t often that people choked up just _talking_ to him. It wasn’t often that people talked to him for over an hour either without some type of motivation (or unless they were a meddling family member). Maybe Stiles…

            Derek pushed such silly, optimistic thoughts away with a shake of his head and hopped off the counter. No more distractions for the day. Or the next four days, for that matter. His thesis was more important than some mindless _crush_. He’d wasted enough of the day as it was.

            (And if he spent forty-five minutes in the shower thrusting into his hand and thinking about long legs and long fingers and moles on pale skin, well… at least he wouldn’t have so take such a long break to do it later in the day)

 

***~~~***

            (And if his hand slipped into his sweatpants only four hours later with his eyes closed and Stiles names on his lips, no one was around to judge him)

 

***~~~***

            Thursday dawned dark and cloudy. To most it would be ominous, but Derek loved that kind of weather best. He took it as a sign of good luck. It helped that he woke up to a dozen text messages all wishing him good luck. Laura even sounded _nice_. And that Erica remembered the date at all made Derek feel inclined to reply his thanks.

            Of course, Stiles’ simplistic _Good luck! See you this evening. Don’t forget, room 407 in the Studio Arts building. Call me if you get lost_ followed Derek all the way to his assigned lecture hall. What he decided to take from it was _Good luck! See you… call me…_ because fuck you, that’s why. It was his god damn day and if it made him feel better to read between non-existent lines then he would.

            He had his defense in the bag, he knew, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t nervous walking into a room to face a panel of people chosen to judge him. His advisor and favorite professor were there, smiling encouragingly. It took some of the edge off, knowing that they had been there for him the whole semester and had full confidence in his ability to speak about his work.

            Although, Derek had no doubt in his _work_. It was his ability to speak in front of a board of judges that he questioned.

            “You’re phone, Mr. Hale?” His advisor, an older woman who Derek suspected knew just about everything there was to about her subject, smiled at him. Derek nodded at her and slipped his phone out of his portfolio. He was grateful, too, because there had been one awkward meeting between them when Laura wouldn’t stop texting him about some guy at the liquor store.

            Stiles name was flashing across the main screen and he read the message quick as he could while seeming to turn it off.

 _From: Stiles Stilinski  
_             It helps to picture your professors in their underwear

It would help, if he hadn’t started picturing Stiles in his underwear. Sure, he knew what the message was _supposed_ to mean, but seriously?

            What helped calm his nerves was imagining the freak out the other man was probably having about what he’d sent versus what he’d meant.

            Derek took in a deep breath and held it until he was seated in the lone chair in front of the panel. His advisor nodded to him and he nodded back. He had this in the bag.

 

***~~~***

 

            Walking out of the lecture hall and into the rain felt like the first drop on a rollercoaster. Derek tucked his portfolio into the front of his jacket so that he could just stand there and feel the cold drops flatten his hair and catch on his face. It was an appropriate metaphor, washing away the last of his worry and anxiety. He’d done well. He’d presented and answered the judges and hadn’t stuttered or forgotten anything or fumbled around an answer. He was confident in his written work but convincing other people that it was good enough was an entirely different ballpark.

            And he was done.

            The Studio Arts building was only a short walk through campus and across the street. Derek took his time despite- because of- the rain. With such a huge weight off of his shoulders, with no more thesis or projects or papers, with the peak of his adrenaline crashing down, he felt _adventurous_. He felt like he could do anything- _would_ do anything. He felt like he was on the top of the world. He felt like he could actually _do_ this. He could make art. He could try to create something because he felt like he finally had the verve and motivation to.

            And so what if that motivation was impressing Stiles.

            When he finally reached the Studio Arts building, Derek was soaked anywhere not covered by his leather jacket and didn’t give one iota. He was a little early, so he took his time to pull his phone back out and tell Laura and his mother how well his defense went. He saved looking at the bundle of texts from Stiles until last, when he could take the time to appreciate them.

            And, well, there was plenty to appreciate

 

            _From: Stiles Stilinski  
            _ I MEANT THE JUDGES

            _From: Stiles Stilinski  
            _ You should picture the judges in their underwear. That helps.

            _From: Stiles Stilinski  
_ It helps with nerves I’m not saying you should start getting all hot and bothered picturing naked people during your defense.

 _From: Stiles Stilinski  
_ Unless that’s your thing! Naked people. Calming your nerves. I know it helps me a lot

 _From: Stiles Stilinski  
          _ Not that I masturbate every time I get nervous. That would have made for a very awkward first day of classes.

 _From: Stiles Stilinski  
_ WILL YOU PLEASE IGNORE EVERYTHING I HAVE EVER SAID

 _From: Stiles Stilinski  
          _ Except about your grade. Very serious business grades are. And I know how to grade things. Art things. That you have to do or else I will fail you.

 _From: Stiles Stilinski  
          _ Come do art things

 

            The last message was later than all the others, time stamped about four minutes after Derek’s defense was scheduled to be finished. He didn’t know why it made him smile, because by all Derek-logic he should be annoyed by all of the texts that weren’t actually saying anything, but there he was. Grinning. He was hit with even more vigor and desire to do well. If he could finish the requirements for the honors college, thesis and all, he could find it in himself to make art.

            Instead of taking the elevator up to the fourth floor, he wandered to find the stairs so that he could run up them and burn off a little of the adrenaline he’d built up; it would be exactly the opposite of what he’d been trying for all semester if he were to walk right into the room and pushed his professor against the wall. With his pelvis.

            The fourth floor was the top floor with a tall glass ceiling and unnumbered doors. That was… terribly inconvenient. None of the doors had any windows, either. A few were open and showed large rooms with materials everywhere and only a few people. By his third strange look, Derek pulled his phone back out and called Stiles. It barely rang once before he answered.

            “You’re lost, aren’t you Mr. Hale,” came his too pleased voice. Derek pursed his lips.

            “You knew I would be in this monstrosity of a building,” he accused. Stiles laughed on his end.

            “I might have. Gimme a second.” On the complete opposite end of the hall from Derek, a door opened and Stiles’ head popped out. “Here!” his voice echoed in his ear and at a distance and he waved his hand. Hanging up, Derek picked up his pace.

            “You hung up on me. That’s poor etiqueeeeee…” Stiles trailed off when Derek came into the room and closed the door. Derek pretended not to notice the pink tint growing on the other mans’ cheeks as he slipped his jacket off and draped it on the coat hook. It wasn’t like he had dressed to impress or anything, he had a _presentation_. Black slacks and a dark button down were very appropriate when presenting ones’ thesis. The tie might have been overkill, but tugging it loose gave him something to do with his hands that wasn’t tearing off Stiles’ clothes.

            Laura had to have something to do with this… this… _outfit_ (although Derek was more inclined to file it away under fully clothed porn). Stiles was dressed better than he had been the night of his gallery appearance. His dark jeans were almost as tight as the slacks from that class. The red jacket- of fucking _course_ it was Laura- was loose in the arms and tight across the shoulders with the cuffs of it and the white shirt beneath it rolled up. And the glasses….

            Ok, so maybe he wouldn’t murder her.

            Stiles coughed into his hand, turned abruptly, and spread his arms wide at the setup of the room. His eyes caught the photo of Laura first; it was enlarged and propped up next to a printed version of the Mona Lisa. There were four more pictures, two landscapes of mountains and the ocean, a copy of a painting that looked several hundred years old, and a picture of some fruit on a table. Next to lineup of posters was an actual table with fruit on it exactly like the picture, a miniature version of Michelangelo’s David, and a small statue of Anubis.

            There was only one large desk that faced the setup with two chairs and a few other desks under the windows where Stiles bag and laptop were arranged. On the large desk was a small mountain of different kinds of paper, pens, pencils, charcoal, pastels, water colors, oil pains, and a cup full of brushes. The nerves were back as Derek took it all in; was he supposed to draw a picture for everything? Was he supposed to use all of the materials? They had never used anything other than some pencils and charcoal in class. Derek didn’t even know _how_ to paint.

            “Judging by the look on your face, I went a little overboard.” Stiles was facing him again looking sheepish. “I brought in a lot of my own materials for you to fool around with in case you find something that works for you better than the charcoal. And I guessed on a lot of the subjects, too. I tried to keep it the same as in class, just different subjects. And… you know, your sister and history and… stuff.”

            “Stuff,” Derek echoed, bemused. “A very technical term for someone with a Ph.D.”

            Stiles made a face at him. “It’s the evening of the last day of finals and I have graded seven out of eighteen term papers, I think I’m allowed to be a little burnt out.”

            “And I presented a years’ worth of research that has to be approved before I can graduate with honors,” Derek retorted without any heat behind his argument. Stiles rolled his eyes but he was smiling.

            “Call me when you have to write a dissertation.” His words belittled Derek’s work, but he knew better than to take it that way. After going through the trouble to give Derek a second chance so late in the game, on his own time, with his own personal material, it was clear that Stiles was really invested in helping his students pass. When he’d gotten the first e-mail about setting up a meeting, he’d gone onto one of those professor-rating websites and found that Stiles had gotten overall really high marks as far as being helpful (aside from being ranked one of the hottest professors at the University).

            “Ok,” Stiles started in his ‘I’m being a serious professor now, really, stop laughing’ voice, “One finished product. Anything you want. Any materials, any subject, any inspiration. However long it takes you, I don’t care. I have work to do and internet, I think I can handle this. I don’t care if you perfectly copy the Mona Lisa or try and draw an angler fish that looks like a scary piece of cereal. Just give me something more than a stick figure or a hand-turkey.”

            “A hand-turkey?”

            Stiles tripped from where he was crossing the room to his station and turned to look at Derek like he was crazy.

            “Yes, a hand-turkey. Did you never make hand-turkeys as a kid? Because I gotta say, that would explain a lot.” When Derek shrugged, Stiles slapped his hand one of the pieces of paper and traced it with a pencil. He filled in each finger with the orange and red pastels and drew a little beak on it in black. “Hand-turkey.” He held the picture right in Derek’s face with both hands like a child presenting a crude family drawing to a parent. Derek took it and gave it an appraising look.

            “Truly inspired,” he said with false seriousness. Stiles made to swipe it out of his hands but Derek was quicker and held it up and away.

            “I swear if you draw a hand-turkey I will fail you so hard.”

            “But what if I put a lot of effort into it?”

            Stiles rolled his eyes with his entire body. “One last chance, no stick figures or hand-turkeys. It’s my final offer.”

            “You drive a hard bargain,” Derek deadpanned and took his seat. Stiles eyed him like he wasn’t sure Derek was kidding or not and crossed the room to fall into his desk.

            For a full ten minutes, Derek stared at the lineup, mentally begging for something, _anything_ to inspire him. He’d been so sure he could do this. Now that he was sitting there, pencil in hand, nothing. Notta. Zip. Zilch. No inspiration. For the fuck of it, he started sketching a crude version of the fruit; he couldn’t bring himself to ruin the others with what would be a truly horrible rendition. He didn’t care if he ruined some _fruit_.

            “So how did your defense go? I forgot to ask…”

            Derek looked up from where he was about to murder a pear to find Stiles staring at him, head tilted. His voice was soft and quiet like Derek couldn’t handle any harsh sounds in his time of need.

            “It went really well. Especially after I took your advice.”

            Stiles’ blush came back full force and he rubbed at the side of his hair. “I told you to ignore that,” he grumbled and then said louder, “Did you actually picture your professors in their underwear?”

            “Just one.” Derek stared down intently at his sketch like it would save him from his own loose self-control. Stiles cleared his throat.

            “Dr. Briggs on your board of judges? I’ve heard she’s pretty…” out of the corner of his eye, Derek saw Stiles make a hand motion.

            “I didn’t say it was a judge.”

            It took all of Derek’s willpower not to look up and see Stiles’ initial reaction. He kept his eyes down, hand moving across the paper until he was sure the other man had gone back to work. When his eyes flicked up he saw Stiles staring wide-eyed at the essay in front of him, one hand rubbing across his chin and bottom lip in _just_ that way and Derek found it. He put his pencil down and picked up the charcoal. The light gray markings of fruit faded into the background with the first swipe of harsh black. He didn’t even bother to erase them and start a new sketch; something told him he didn’t need one.

            It was messy. His hands became dirtier and dirtier as he used his own fingers to smudge the paper into shadows and angles. It wasn’t long until the smears started taking shape into a hand, blacker than his own with coal, slimmer than his own, longer and more delicate. That one look was all it took for Derek to realize that he didn’t need a model or an image to copy; he’d spent four months looking at those hands and that mouth. God, was this what it was supposed to feel like? His every move and thought obsessed with making sure every detail was perfect, butterflies in his stomach just because of a stupid image on a stupid piece of paper, energy surging through his hands- was this what art was supposed to be? Was this what Stiles felt every time took pencil to paper? It explained so much- the mess of his office and passion for making his students understand- the feeling was heady and addicting and he didn’t want it to stop.

            And then… and then what stared back at him was exactly why he’d never been inspired with his assignments. Because Derek didn’t find art beautiful, but he did find Stiles beautiful.

            It wasn’t even finished. It was just the one hand tugging at the bottom lip of an open mouth and the underside of a turned up nose. There was barely even a finished jaw line, let alone a face.

            “I know that look.” Derek shot straight, panic starting flutter in his chest as Stiles stood slowly from his chair and stretched. “Can I see your progress? It’s not too late so… or are you finished already?” He was crossing the room at regular speed but to Derek it was all in slow motion. He looked from Stiles, to his picture, and back up.

            “I should start over. It’s not… You shouldn’t-” but it was too late. He was there, one hand braced on the table and one on the back of Derek’s chair. The surprised sound he made gusted across his ear and hair and lit his body up with a cold fire. Humiliation washed over him, freezing the air in his lungs and heating his face.

            “Jesus, Derek. If I’d known you’d find so much inspiration in Michelangelo I would have introduced him months ago. You did a really great job.” He patted Derek once on the shoulder and straightened himself to walk back to his computer. Derek could only watch with something between relief and wonder. “I _knew_ you had it in you, I really did. I don’t even feel like I played favorites by giving you this opportunity. I knew you just needed that extra little push.”

“Michelangelo.” Derek said dumbly. Stiles hunched over his desk to type on his computer and then looked back up.

            “Yeah. You should see the David in person someday. I swear the hands are more beautiful than any person could ever actually possess. It’s… it’s really something.”

            “The David…” Derek looked back down at his portrait. To him, it was so painfully obvious who it was supposed to be, even without eyes or hair or an ear. Was he biased for his own work? Or was Stiles just that oblivious? Maybe it was missing somethi- _aha_. That was it. He picked up the charcoal again.

            “You don’t have to do anymore!” Stiles all but shouted. Derek startled but didn’t stop himself from filing in the small mark off to the side of the mouth. “I’ve just put your grade in; you really don’t have to do anymore. I like it. I want to keep it, actually, if you’ll let me, so I can show how much progress you’ve made. Pleee…aa… oh.”

            The moles really were unmistakable. Derek could almost hear the cogs turning in Stiles head as he hovered over the side of the table. His face was open and red all the way down to his shirt. He didn’t know why he’d added them when he could have so easily let the man go on thinking that picture wasn’t him. But deep down he knew he couldn’t do that, not when the picture could say something he couldn’t put into words.

            “Well this is embarrassing.”

            That wasn’t…

            Fuck.

            Derek froze, torn between grabbing the picture and fleeing and defending that _yes, yes it was totally inspired by the David_. It overstepped the boundaries laid so carefully between them by miles. Grade entry had nothing to do with it. Stiles’ humiliation hadn’t even been on his radar when thinking about this moment. It was presumptuous of him to think that just because the semester was over that there could be something between them. Drawing something so personal, so intimate, something that put forth his intentions so clearly put Stiles in an uncomfortable position and that was the opposite of what Derek had hoped for. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Stiles spoke over him.

            “I mean, I just compared myself to the David, you must think I’m like, some narcissist or something. God, I can’t believe I actually implied that about myself. I swear I don’t think that. Really. I’m just a skinny guy with hipster glasses, not… not _that_. Wow, really, actually that’s… you drew me. That’s…” He blew out a breath with puffed cheeks, head shaking. Derek almost laughed in relief. His day had been so back and forth emotionally, much more than he could ever handle. He just needed something to be straightforward.

            “The final grade is in?”

            Stiles physically snapped out of whatever self-deprecating rant he had going in his head to nod down at Derek. Derek didn’t pretend to not to notice how the other man’s eyes darted down to his mouth just a hair too long.

            “You’re not my professor anymore?”

            He shook his head no, eyes dropping again before they locked on his and widened. The realization in his expression was clear as day. For a long moment, he stared down at Derek, caught between his eyes and mouth and where his tie was loosened to allow for two buttons to be undone, like he was finally allowing himself to see what they’d both been denying themselves all year. Then he smirked, lips pulling up in a grin that was so different from anything he’d ever allowed in the classroom.

            “Nope,” he popped like a piece of gum. “Just two consenting adults on a rainy Thursday evening.”

            Derek stood and Stiles didn’t move back. They were almost the same height, Stiles eyes coming up to his nose but still flicking between his eyes and mouth unabashedly.

            “Consenting?” Derek teased. “Consenting to what, exactly?” He dropped his voice low to an almost whisper and watched Stiles throat bob as he swallowed thickly.

            “Consenting to, ah,” he licked his lips, “celebrating you finishing your degree.”

            Derek hummed. He lifted one hand to tickle across Stiles’ jaw, cupping the air around the soft skin and sharp angle without actually touching. Stiles didn’t step away or tell him to stop- just stared at him with parted lips and red cheeks. “With honors,” he added.

            Stiles nodded. “Your second one, too.”

            “’T’s a kind of thing that takes all night to properly celebrate.” He let his thumb ghost over the corner of his mouth. Stiles breath rushed out of him in a chocked _oh-ho my god_ quiet and hot on Derek’s neck. He gave the smallest nod like he was afraid Derek would pull away if he moved into the hand.

            “I swear to god, Derek, if you don’t fucking do som _hmm_ -” In one swift move, Derek slid his coal blackened hand around the back of Stiles’ neck and pulled him forward into a hard kiss. The slighter man reacted quickly, throwing his arms around Derek’s neck and grabbing at his hair, kissing him fiercely with no preamble. It was like a dam breaking, blasting them straight past a sweet, exploratory first kiss into an open-mouthed crash of tongues and teeth. He pulled a moan out of Stiles with his teeth, tugging at his bottom lip before venturing lower, licking over the black thumbprint at the hinge of his jaw.

            “I don’t even  - _fuck_ \- care that we had to wait four months I’m – _do that again_ \- I’m so fucking happy you took my class.”

            Earlobe between his teeth, Derek hummed his agreement. He slid his hands down, appreciating the hidden muscle of Stiles’ shoulders in passing on his way to cupping the soft curve of his ass. One squeeze, one pull and they were flush together, one bite to the soft skin under his ear and Stiles was shaking in his hold. His enthusiasm was clear in the swelling in the front of his jeans and Derek pulled their hips closer to show his own eagerness until their zippers caught and grated.

            Stiles squeezed at the fists of black hair he had a hold on, Derek nipped his approval that had him only pulling harder.

            “So this is a thing,” he choked out. “B-but- _haa_ yea, I can’t do this without being totally honest, I _really_ would like this to be more than a one night – _fuck-_ I mean… no I mean that.” Derek lifted his head to look at him, eyes distracted by the red shine of the lips he’d been so enamored with. “Don’t get me wrong, I am more than ok if you don’t want that- better to have loved and lost and all that but-”

            For the second time, Derek silenced him with a kiss, softer this time, a languid promise with a whisper of tongue. The dazed look in Stiles’ eye when he pulled away had him going in for another before speaking.

            “You’ve got a gallery showing tomorrow?” He asked in lieu of an answer. Stiles nodded. “I’ll go with you.”

            The implication was not lost on him if the way he tackled Derek into another kiss was anything to go by. Derek laughed into his mouth, just as happy that he was getting from this not only what he had hoped for, but more.

            “How close is your place?”

            Panting, Stiles had to actually think for a second, like it was a trick question. “Ten minutes by car. Apartment down town- above that one coffee place everyone loves? You?”

            Vague as it may be, Derek actually knew café he was talking about and smirked. “Ten minutes if we walk.”

            Stiles nodded enthusiastically at nothing. “We should go there. Like, five minutes ago. We should go. Now. Ok.”

            _Why put off a good thing?_ They were out of the room in a flurry of leather jackets and keys and running down the stairs, actually _running_ until they reached the main entrance to the building. Stiles came to a full stop just outside the door, Derek all but slamming into his back and steadying them both with an arm around the other man’s waist. Stiles leaned into him and looked up at the dark sky, fat drops of rain still hitting their fronts.

            “We could drive?”

            “We could run?” Derek suggested close to his ear. Stiles leaned back closer to his chest, grinning like a loon. He turned his head into Derek’s cheek, his nose already cold from the May storm.  
            “I don’t hold heat very well. M’like a cat.”

            “Well we can’t have that now, can we?” As Derek moved to take off his coat, Stiles spun around, a protest on the tip of his tongue until his eyes caught the sight of rain wetting the dark cotton of his shirt. Derek smirked, basked in the way Stiles looked at him like he _needed_ him. He let Derek slip the warmed leather over his shoulders and shrugged his arms into the sleeves. It was a little large on him, even over his own red jacket, but it kept the chill of the rain from cutting through him. When he was properly zipped in, he grabbed Stiles’ hand and _ran_.

            It was so terribly cliché that despite the cold, Stiles was laughing as he jogged and hopped puddles behind Derek. The Studio Arts building was already on the cusp of campus nearest the quaint neighborhood where Derek rented a tiny, one bedroom ranch with a tiny fenced in yard. Stiles laughed and laughed when he saw the white picket fence lined with sopping daisies. Derek quieted him with his lips and pushed him against the locked door.

            “If this is going to become a pattern I might never shut up.” Stiles said into Derek’s wet lips.

            “If you never shut up I might never stop kissing you and won’t be able to unlock this damned door.” He pulled Stiles close to him with one arm so that he could reach around with the other and fumble the key in the lock. They tumbled into the dark house in a mess of laughing kisses, the urgency still there but the seriousness overcome by the giddiness of having each other and the ridiculousness of the moment.

            The leather jacket was lost in the living room and the black tie used to pull Derek towards his own bedroom. Stiles never stopped touching, never stopped running his hands over Derek’s hair and neck, never stopped kissing and nuzzling his cheek with his cold nose. Derek tugged at the white button down that had him feeling so victimized, sliding his hands across the tight skin of Stiles’ back and finding it surprisingly cold. He didn’t fail to notice the way Stiles leaned into the touch, an approving groan releasing into Derek’s mouth.

            “You weren’t kidding about not holding in heat,” he teased, rubbing up and down and using warming friction as an excuse to touch everywhere the infuriatingly tight clothing would allow.

            Stiles laughed quietly against his wet cheek. “You’ll just have to warm me up, hm?” The playful suggestion had Derek humming his agreement, the teasing sound turning guttural as Stiles rolled his hips forward. “Know what other parts of me are cold?” The eyebrow wiggle didn’t even kill the mood; that was how Derek knew he was gone. He did roll his eyes, though, and flipped them around to pin the thinner man to the back of his bedroom door, hips pressing forward until Stiles choked on his breath.

            It was frenzied after that, hands grabbing and pulling at clothes and lips and teeth latching onto whatever skin they could find. Stiles was vocal, though words were a bit beyond him and Derek found himself loving it like music, doing everything he could to keep the volume up.

            “A-alright grad-boy,” Stiles said around a particularly hard bite to the neck that had Derek shivering. “Top or bottom?”

            Derek pretended to think about it, hands roaming back until he could reach them down below the band of Stiles briefs. “Both,” he decided and Stiles let out a glottal laugh.

            “Good to know, but w-whaaa…” his question melted into a moan as Derek’s fingers slipped down the crease of his ass, not enough pressure to sink in but the intention clear. Eyes closed, Stiles nodded vigorously, the back of his head scraping against the door.

            “T-top tonight. I am one hundreeed- _fuck_.” Derek rolled his hips again.

            “Maybe.”

            “Oh come _on_ , Derek don’t be a tease; yes or no?” His words tried to convey annoyance but there wasn’t an ounce of it in Stiles’ tone or face. Derek brushed their lips together in a not-kiss as he pushed Stiles’ pants and briefs down.

            “Maybe,” he said again. In one move, he pulled completely away and shucked his shirt off. Stiles sagged into the door, hooded eyes raking over Derek as he toed off his shoes, wriggled out of his pants, and unbuttoned his shirt all at once. And while Stiles may be enamored enough by Derek’s abs and nothing more, Derek couldn’t stop _staring_ as Stiles unwrapped himself like the god damn present he was. And, _god_ , he wasn’t as skinny as he liked to pretend; he was _fit_ , his legs long and slender but muscled around the thighs like a runner, his hip bones framing his smooth stomach and the trail of dark hair that drew Derek’s eyes down to his standing cock.

Fuck if he wasn’t the most beautiful thing Derek had ever seen, all smooth skin and slender and looking so disheveled that Derek didn’t even let him finish undressing. He stopped thin fingers from pulling off the shirt and jacket just as Stiles finished popping the buttons. He tilted his head, eyes behind his glasses questioning. Derek didn’t answer, just let himself look. Stiles shoulders and head were still against the door, hips jutting out in a way that arched his back, angled him so that Derek couldn’t do anything _but_ look for a few long moments. Even as Stiles reached down stroke himself with a lazy grip, grin splitting his reddened face.

            “Not to say that I’m not happy you like what you see but I _really_ wouldn’t mind seeing a bit, too.”

            Derek made a face like he was considering the words, then slowly slid just his jeans down to the floor. Stiles breath caught, his hand tightening its strokes and his eyes locked on the tip of Derek’s cock peaking from the band of his black boxer briefs. 

            “ _Fuck_ ,” Stiles whispered. His bottom lip caught between his teeth as he twisted his wrist and surged his hips even further away from the door. Derek covered the pumping hand with his own, stopping Stiles mid stroke and almost, _almost_ letting himself touch the bead of wetness forming at his slit.

            “That’s enough now,” he said lowly. Stiles smirked again and let himself be maneuvered onto his back on the bed. He inched up toward the headboard on his elbows, the red jacket falling further open.

            “Gonna be bossy, now, huh? Gonna play _teacher_ , tell me what to do?”

            Derek crawled up the bed after him, covering his body with his own and straddling his hips but only touching with his hands. Stiles arched up into them when they ghosted along his ribs and chest. He took his time to touch so, so lightly that Stiles made a frustrated noise at the back of his throat. It was a wordless plea accompanied by a shove of his hips. Derek only just managed to lift up to keep them apart. Seeing Stiles like this, eager and open for _him_ made him feel power hungry. He didn’t know what he wanted first- everything, all of him, anything. And Stiles would _let him_ ; he would lie there if Derek told him to, take whatever he was given and love every second of it.

            He slid his palms down Stiles arms with a firmer pressure to wrap around his wrists and bring them up to the black iron bars of his headboard, manually closing his long fingers in fists around them.

            “If you let go, I’ll stop.”

            Brown eyes widened, grin opening in wonder as Stiles nodded his consent. Derek leaned over to his night stand dug around the drawer for the small bottle of lube and string of condoms he kept there. Seeing them, Stiles licked his lips. He stared eagerly as Derek wet his fingers and breathed hot air on them to warm them up.

            “I can talk though, right? I can move?” He lifted his hips in example, trying to brush his erection on Derek’s hovering hands.

            “Whatever you want, just don’t let go.”

            Stiles was at his mercy, willing and waiting. Derek didn’t want to wait, though, didn’t want to make Stiles wait. He moved to kneel between his spread legs, pushed at his thigh with his dry hand and massaged the muscle as he brought his other hand forward. Stiles pulled his hips up and closer to himself, opening himself just enough that Derek could watch his own finger disappear into his hole.

            Stiles watched him watch, jaw hanging and lips twitching into an arrogant smirk as Derek pushed past the second knuckle. He was aware of the eyes on him but didn’t have a single care, too engrossed and finally being able to _have_ this and determined not to miss a second of it. He watched himself disappear into Stiles, then slip back out only to push back in, harder this time, the knuckles of his other fingers pressing into the soft flesh of Stiles cheeks as he reached far as he could.

            Stiles was silent, expressing his pleasure only with gasps and hard exhales. As much as Derek wanted to draw this out, he wanted to hear Stiles more and added a second finger without warning. Stiles groaned at that, his hips starting to lift and press down in rhythm.

            “I want to see you,” he said breathlessly. “I want to see you, Derek, c’mon, please, lemme see.”

            Derek smirked and nodded down at himself. “I’m right here.” He was painfully hard in his briefs; there was no way Stiles couldn’t see how much he wanted him. It took all of his self-control not to palm at himself through the fabric.

            The noise that ripped from Stiles was rough and low and made out of frustration and Derek loved it, tried to pull out another by pressing in harder and crooking his fingers. Stiles surged up, shoulders twisting as he tried to keep hold of the bars and another guttural cry piercing the air. Pleas started to fall from his lips, the rhythm of his hips becoming frantic as he tried to get Derek to do more than fuck him slowly with his fingers. He squeezed at Stiles thigh, meant to sooth but only managed to draw out another tight _fuck please_ , and slid up over the jut of bone to press flat against Stiles’ stomach and keep him from doing more work than Derek wanted him to.

            “You could come from this, couldn’t you?” He said it like a statement as he repeated the motion over and over again, slowly, slowly. “I haven’t even touched your cock and you could come.”

            Stiles nodded ardently, face contorted with the agony of pleasure as Derek pressed in a third finger. “N-never have before but – _shiiit_ \- you… I… fuck, Derek, _come on_ , I’m ready, _please_ just fuck me.”

            Pressed to the knuckle, Derek flexed his fingers once more before pulling out entirely. “Who said anything about me fucking you?”

            Stiles faced went from relief to confusion. Derek didn’t elaborate. He pushed off his briefs and ripped open one of the condoms to roll down his untouched erection.

            “Did you finger me stupid or is your degree in mixed signals?” Stiles asked. Still silent, Derek opened another condom and slid it over Stiles, taking his time to rub his thumb over the head softly a few times.

            “Whaaaat is happening,” Stiles drawled. Derek tugged at his biceps until he released his white-knuckled grip on the bars and pushed the shirt and jacket off his shoulders. The glasses came next and he placed them on the nightstand. Stiles sat up, legs bracketing Derek’s thighs and one hand coming up to his neck to pull him into a sloppy kiss, all tongue and teeth and hot breath. It was nothing to lift him up, to pull his lithe body until he was straddling Derek’s thighs, their cocks brushing together tantalizingly. One hand slung low and supportive around Stiles’ back, the other flipped open the lube and squeezed a few drops onto Stiles’ fingers.

            “Can you reach from there?”

            Stiles looked from his wet fingers, to the covered heads of their hard-ons, to Derek’s eyes before leaning in close and reaching around behind him. He kissed Derek as he fingered in, not taking the time to tease. He was quick about it, barely giving Derek enough time to adjust before he added another finger, then another, slotting their lips together all the while.

            “Lay back,” he rasped against Derek’s stubble. He did so without question, letting Stiles finally take control. He pulled up one of Derek’s legs, his hand cradling the back of his knee and massaging lightly. The urgency Derek had forced him to endure and had denied was paid back in full with the excruciating pace with which he pushed in. It was a stretch, but a welcome burn and had him sucking in a sharp breath. Stiles was watching himself with the same intensity Derek had, staring enraptured as his cock disappeared again and again, slow and deep and agonizing.

            “You’re so fucking beautiful,” Stiles muttered into his calf. Derek just laid back and enjoyed his own view; the contracting of Stiles abs as he pressed his hips forward, the way his eyes never left Derek’s body even as he mouthed at the skin of his leg, the heaving of his chest as he tried to control his breathing. Stiles dragged sounds out of him that he didn’t have mind to be embarrassed about, the pace quickening and slowing because something about Derek gave away how crazy it was making him. He would pull the way out, his free hand keeping himself aimed to pistol back in, taunting him with feelings of _too full_ and _too empty_ and never giving him time to adjust to one tempo enough to get off.

            “That’s right,” he cooed down, arrogant and pleased with himself but his wavering control broke through with the shake of his voice, “you’re not the only one that can tease.”

            Derek had to fist the sheets to keep from touching himself and finishing this. He hadn’t thought Stiles wouldn’t be _good_ but he hadn’t planned for him to be like _this_ and this wasn’t how he wanted their first time to end. He opened his mouth to say so, but then Stiles leaned back _just_ so and thrust forward at the same time and his words were lost to a string of half-shouted curses as a lightning bolt of pleasure ripped through his body.

            “What was that, Deeeerek?” Stiles drew out his name as long as it took him to pull out slowly and drove forward again. “Speak _up_.” He snapped his hips without having pulled out, striking the same spot again.

            It took all of his control to sit up without shaking, pushing up onto his hands and bending himself in half as Stiles kept buried inside of him.

            “On your stomach,” he growled out, close enough to feel the rush of Stiles’ breath but not enough to kiss. He nodded dumbly but didn’t pull out, couldn’t with the new position. Derek pressed forward, his raised leg dropping so that he could bend it down and crowd Stiles back into the pillows. He ground down once, just enough to have the other man open his mouth in a choked whimper, and pulled off completely. Stiles wasted no time twisting under him, throwing off his condom in the process.

            Derek plastered himself over Stiles’ back, the skin heated and slick with sweat against his chest. Stiles spread his legs until they lined up along the inside of Derek’s, fitting like a puzzle piece almost too perfectly. Feeling amorous, Derek slid his cock along the crease of Stiles ass, the head catching the ring of muscle so ready for him that the man below him shouted obscenities and insults into his pillow. He was shaking below him, hips rocking against the bed to relieve the pressure.

            Balanced on one arm, Derek lined himself up and slid in in one motion and immediately squeezed his hand around under Stiles to grab his leaking cock. They moaned in tandem, rocking until they found a rhythm. He wasn’t under the illusion that this would last; Stiles was tighter and softer than he’d imagined and so much better than a closed fist in the shower. He was hot and held him in, every rock of his hips tightening around him until he couldn’t hold back any longer. Derek shifted his weight from Stiles to the forearm Stiles had in a vice like grip so that he could raise his hips and let gravity bring him back down. Stiles cried out into Derek’s elbow with every thrust, the rocking of his hips becoming frantic and short as he fucked Derek’s fist.

            Their cadence was all off but so fucking _good_ that it didn’t matter. It only took Derek snapping his hips down a handful of times before Stiles was screaming his name, clutching at Derek’s arm like it would save him and coming hot and wet onto his fingers and blanket. Derek pulled his hand away to grab at Stiles’ jaw, turning his head until Derek could lick into his mouth. Cause or coincidence, nearly the second Stiles opened his misty eyes to meet his, Derek lost his tempo, hips stuttering and hands grasping and Stiles’ name on his lips as he came with stars behind his eyes.

            He didn’t remember collapsing but congratulated post-orgasm self for falling to the side in front of Stiles’ face. It was through a haze that he saw Stiles, close enough that he was cross-eyed and blurry as he beamed manically at Derek.

            “Your orgasm is showing,” he slurred into his pillow. Stiles walked his hand up Derek’s back with his fingers until he could slide them into his hair wet with rain water and sweat.

            “Duuuude,” he whispered past the smile. “Sex is not supposed to be like that.”

            Derek quirked a brow. “Good?” he asked, just in case. Stiles nodded once and scooched impossibly closer so that Derek had to tilt his head and blink just to see his face clearly.

            “Past good. Beyond good. The word phenomenal comes to mind but I don’t think it does what we just did justice. Oxford is going to have to invent a new word just for us and the awesome sex we’re going to be having.”

            The reminder of what they were going to try had Derek joining Stiles as a member of the Stupid Smiles Club. He felt warm, content all the way down to his toes and not just because of great sex and mutual orgasms. Stiles and he clicked, in a way, and Derek had every intention of exploring all the ways they got along.

            “Duuuude,” Stiles breathed again as blinked slowly, sleepily. “I fully intend to partake in round two after shower, food, and a short nap. Oooh sleepy sex. I love sleepy sex, man. That is a thing that should happen.”

            “I think I can cater to your whims,” Derek agreed. A hot –shared- shower sounded like heaven, so did a good meal. The evening was still young yet.

 

~~~***~~~

 

            They may or may not have passed out where they lay, Stiles kicking away the top blanket with the wet spot and Derek curling around him like a space heater.

 

~~~***~~~

 

            The morning dawned with gray light seeping through the windows, the post storm air physically bright but steely the way Stiles always hated.

            Psh, like that could keep him from smiling so hard his cheeks hurt.

            He was sore in all the right places and when he stretched over to the empty side of the bed, the dreamy memories of the night before solidified: lazy, 3am sex, him draped on his back over Derek’s chest as they writhed beneath tacky sheets; fumbling down a dark hallway even though they were alone and forgot they could turn a light on; sitting on the kitchen counter and eating pb&j’s until they realized they weren’t tired enough to go back to sleep; round three happening in the light of a movie playing on Derek’s laptop.

            To say it wasn’t everything Stiles ever wanted was a bold faced lie.

            He rolled around, messing up the sheets and dozing to his heart’s content until the smell of breakfast food wafted under the bedroom door. His stomach let out an embarrassingly loud noise that Derek could probably hear from the kitchen. When he stumbled out of the room, it was bare-assed and drunk on pleasure; Derek lived in a _house_. _Alone_. With no roommate or immediate neighbors and curtains that prevented prying eyes. He didn’t even care if Derek had put on clothes.

            “In here,” Derek’s voice echoed from across the tiny house in the kitchen when he heard the bedroom door open and close. Stiles smiled in that direction and strut through the living room scratching idly at his belly. His man ( _he had a man_ ) was cooking him breakfast. Awww _yeaaa_ —

            “OH MY GOD WHY ARE YOU NAKED?!”

            Several things happened all at once and fast enough for Stiles to deny a very girly scream. Laura (that _was_ Laura, right? He’d only had one official meeting with her) had burst in through the front door, house key in one hand and the painting she’d bough from Stiles hanging from the other. Stiles only just managed to catch the painting as she threw it at him, using it to cover his crotch as Derek ran out of the kitchen flourishing a spatula. He was blessedly naked and completely unwilling to cower the way Stiles was behind his back and the small painting.

            Laura smacked herself in the face in her hurry to cover her eyes.

            “Dammit, Derek, will you at least cover up? I didn’t come over here to see your _junk_ ,” she moaned loudly. Derek, standing in front of Stiles like a partition, crossed his arms in defiance, looking mighty, er, _threatening_ with his spatula.

            “No one invited you _to my house_ at all Laura, I’m not going to put on clothes just because you don’t know how to give me some privacy.”

            “ _God_ ,” Laura spat, fumbling blindly towards the door, “I just came to give you that paining I bought you and see if that red jacket worked. _Evidently_ it did.”

            “ _Go!_ ”

            But she was already tripping back out the front door.

            Stiles fidgeted back and forth on his feet behind a motionless Derek. Even from the back he could see the dark red flush seeping down his neck.

            “Soooo…” he tried lamely to diffuse the tension. “I could totally go for some sausage.”

            Derek raised his brow at Stiles over his shoulder, one side of his mouth twitching up before he stalked back into the kitchen.

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo I feel like there was a lot of potential here that I didn't take because I get bored and lazy when fics get too long :x sorry
> 
> \--the university things dealing with the honors college thesis are just based on personal experience at college. I know it bugs me when I read things like that that are different from what I'm used to irl so just.... yea...


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